


you're my favorite distraction

by astano



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astano/pseuds/astano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana visits Quinn unannounced and discovers just how easy it is for her to be a distraction from Quinn's school work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're my favorite distraction

As far as Santana is concerned, Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest. Which, in her eyes, means sleeping in and then lounging around for the rest of the day. Maybe even a bout of lazy morning sex.

Unfortunately for her, Quinn does not seem to be of the same view.

“I told you when you decided to just turn up at my door that I was busy this weekend,” she says, pushing back the covers and reaching for the sweater she’d dropped by the side of the bed the night before. Santana counted it as something of a victory last night that she didn’t pause in their activities to fold it up. That had been known to happen on more than one occasion. “I have a paper to finish by Monday, and as you didn’t let me get anything done yesterday...”

Santana almost grins at that, the memories fresh in her mind of pinning Quinn to the door as soon as it closed behind her. It wasn’t her fault Quinn had been so easy to distract. It’s just a shame she seems to have grown a little resistance overnight.

She sighs, head still a little fuzzy from sleep, and rolls over into Quinn’s vacated spot. “I’m not moving,” she says, burying her head into the pillow, and closing her eyes resolutely.

“No one said you had to.”

“S’ok then,” Santana mumbles, quickly drifting back to sleep.

~

The next thing Santana knows, it’s two hours later, and she is groggily waking up for the second time.

She thinks about getting coffee. More specifically, she thinks about asking Quinn to get her coffee, but as her eyes adjust to the light, and she focuses on Quinn sitting at her desk, she decides not to bother.

There’s something about Quinn just sitting there, engrossed in her work, that is... it’s really fucking hot.

Quinn’s still just wearing her sweater and a pair of hot pink panties—panties of a very similar shade to the pair Santana vividly remembers yanking down Quinn’s legs the evening before—and she’s almost curled up in her chair, one leg bent and resting on the seat, as she flicks through the pages of a textbook, stopping every now and then to make notes or highlight something in the text.

As Santana watches, Quinn’s tongue pokes out and runs absentmindedly over her bottom lip, and it doesn’t take more than about three seconds of that for Santana’s mind to be off and running with thoughts of slinking across the room and kneeling down, urging Quinn’s legs apart and seeing how long it takes for her to lose every ounce of concentration she has.

She stretches lazily, groaning a little as she feels the pleasant ache in her muscles from the previous day’s activities, and the even more pleasant ache that’s starting to build again between her thighs. A small part of her mind wonders how it’s possible she’s ready to go again; how just watching Quinn like this—not really doing anything at all—is enough to set her off.

Quinn glances over at her groan, offering a pointed look and an arched brow. Santana smirks, then says, “You want something?”

“Just wondering if you're gonna get out of bed anytime today?”

“Not if I can help it,” Santana replies. She pushes back the covers and pats the mattress beside her. “Was kinda hoping you might wanna come back.”

“I'm busy.”

“Yeah. You’re kinda hot when you’re being all studious,” Santana says, accompanied by an exaggerated leer and some impressive eyebrow wiggling. Quinn rolls her eyes, then determinedly turns back to her work. Which is fine, it’s not like she actually needs Quinn’s participation in anything.

Leaving the covers pushed away from her body, Santana shuffles so she’s propped up a little. She lets her legs part, her fingers starting to stroke aimlessly over her stomach as she watches Quinn work.

It’s not long before she’s aching to slip her hand lower—she wasn’t lying when she said Quinn was kinda hot—and as much as she likes the anticipation, she’s never been a person with a large amount of willpower, so her fingers are pushing under the waistband of her panties seconds later.

She lets out a quiet sigh as her fingers slide through trimmed hair and graze lightly over her clit, and if it wasn’t for the slight stiffening of Quinn’s shoulders, she would have thought she’d been too quiet to hear. She grins and lets another small sigh out, pleased when Quinn shifts slightly in her chair. Santana’s not normally vocal when she’s not with a partner, but she’s willing to make an exception if it means torturing Quinn into submission.

And maybe she’s getting off on this too, because she’s already wetter than she would normally be, and it takes no effort at all to press two fingers inside herself. She arches into her hand, curls her fingers, and drags them back out, repeating the motion again and again, until the noises she’s making are not at all for show. It’s not, however, until a few seconds later when a breathless, “Oh, God,” slips out that Quinn reacts.

“Santana.” She can tell Quinn’s trying to sound stern, but her voice breaks halfway through Santana’s name. It’s nice, that she’s having an effect on Quinn, but honestly, she didn’t think it would be this easy to destroy Quinn’s resolve. It’s actually kind of disappointing.

As sweetly as she can with one hand between her thighs, she replies, “Yes, Quinn?”

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping myself entertained.” Quinn doesn’t say anything at all to that, but she sits very still, and Santana’s pretty sure that even if she is managing to read her textbook, she’s not taking anything in.

Sliding her fingers out, Santana presses them wet and sticky against her clit, whimpering softly before saying, “Do you want to see?”

“No.”

Santana laughs, then enters herself again, groaning loudly. “Don’t lie.”

She can see Quinn swallow, see the moment her resolve breaks completely, and she tightens around her fingers, swears she gets even wetter when Quinn turns slowly around, the want in her eyes clearly visible and if she thought Quinn looked hot before, it’s nothing to how she looks now.

“Oh fuck, Santana,” Quinn says hoarsely—in a timbre that makes Santana shiver when it settles over her body like a physical caress.

“Come here.” It’s a breathless demand, but one that brooks no argument, and Quinn immediately moves from her chair. In less than a second, she’s kneeling on the end of the bed, leaning forward with her hands resting on Santana’s calves. Santana can feel the slight pressure of Quinn’s fingers against her the skin and she aches to feel them elsewhere.

Quinn’s eyes are glued to Santana’s panties, and the movement of her hand underneath. “Take them off,” she says, fingers pressing harder against Santana’s calves as she speaks.

“I’m kind of busy,” Santana replies. “You take them off.” She gasps then as she strokes hard over her clit, and then raises her hips, letting Quinn quickly drag down her panties and discard them to one side.

Santana lets her legs drop wide again, fingers stroking through her wetness almost aimlessly now, just enough to keep herself on edge, as she watches Quinn’s face—her eyes flitting over Santana’s body like she doesn't know where she wants to look most.

Santana groans as she presses her fingers back inside—just briefly, just enough to tease before she brings them back to slide over her clit once more.

Quinn makes a noise in her throat then, that Santana’s pretty sure would best be described as a growl, and a split second later she’s batting Santana’s hand away and replacing it with her own.

“Quinn… _Fuck_.” Santana’s hips jump at the touch, and she gasps as those fingers she’d dreamt about—woke up thinking about—are finally right where they need to be. She swears again, loudly, her head dropping back against the bed as the rest of her strains upwards to the feeling of Quinn’s perfect fucking fingers filling her again and again.

And she’d normally be happy to let Quinn finish her, but she’s suddenly so desperate to come that she can’t—she just can’t wait. She brings her own hand back, fingers playing desperately over her clit, and it’s only seconds later she shudders through her orgasm, Quinn’s name on her lips, and Quinn’s fingers curling perfectly inside of her, letting her ride out every last second of pleasure.

When she can think again, she grins lazily over a Quinn. “It’s kind of pathetic,” she says, “how little effort it took to distract you.” Quinn huffs a little and Santana grins again. “You should maybe work on that by, say, writing a 500 word essay on why Santana Lopez is better than Quinn Fabray while I eat you out. And you don’t get to come unless I decide it’s worth at least an A.”

Quinn’s only response is to slap Santana lightly on her shoulder, but it’s not a no, so Santana’s pretty sure she knows what she’s doing for at least the next hour—Quinn always was a slow writer.


End file.
